Watershed
by tiefseelaterne
Summary: "Think about all the bad things that happened here, Castle." "And what about all the good things that happened here, Beckett...?" / Something like an alternative for the upcoming finale... or just an idea how it could be. (Castle/Beckett)


_I'm not a native speaker and I tend to write short chapters. Would love to get some feedback, though :)_

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**WATERSHED**

Hot steam. Burbling water. Along with the scent of this kashmir bath lotion Lanie gave her last christmas. A shame that she didn't have time to open it until now.

Beckett is stirring the spoon in her cup of cocoa and watches with a thrill of anticipation as the bathtub fills. Her bathroom is half-lighted, her favorite music playing quietly. On the side table, she placed a short pile of books. She doesn't know which one to read first because she loves not knowing it. She saves that decision for later because she loves making it.

Both hands wrapped around the warm cup, she's tilting her head back with nose raised and eyes closed. _Thank god for this genius who made the glorious invention of a bathtub once... _

Her eyes are opening at the certain thought about a moment when she was thinking exactly the same thing - about 3 years ago, when she was preparing a bath in her old apartment. The explosion still echoes in her ears as she remembers, and her relaxed expression fades for a second. After all, it was the bathtub that saved her life. Well... the bathtub and Castle.

She smiles in the mug and takes a sip from her cocoa. _Of course Castle. _She has to laugh silently as her head fills up with all their arguments about who saved whose life more often.

Happily, they are able to laugh about it now. She hates to think about the times when it wasn't funny at all, for neither of them. Everytime she realizes that these times are over, she wants him in reach; wants him to kiss her, to touch her, to hold her hand, to just... be with her. Now he isn't and she has to remind herself why she wanted to have it that way; why she wanted to spend the evening without him, all alone. She don't know it anymore, but surely she had her reasons when she denied his offer to join him at his place after they left the precinct earlier the day.

It is funny. Since Gates made clear that she knew about their relationship all along, they have to remind each other now and then that they don't have to hide it anymore. That they could plan their evenings in the middle of the bullpen and don't have to bother if Gates is close by, or anyone who could hear them who could tell someone who could tell someone who could tell Gates. They don't have to care anymore if the way they are interacting is somehow suspicious; if they are standing too close or changing too obvious looks or doing any other thing that could possibly give them away. Everyone can know now. But they got into the habbit of keeping it a secret for so long that they are not able to change it. They still feel more comfortable in an empty break room than at her desk with bustling people passing by. They still shut the blinds when they have to talk, even if it's just about what they'd eat when they'd be at home.

They are unable to stop it, and somehow she likes it. Somehow it has formed their relationship, their way of handling each other. It is a part of them. She don't want to have it any other way, and according to what she knows of him, neither does Castle.

She lets out a pleasant sigh, then takes one foot over the rim and dips her toe contentedly into the water.

"Cold?"

It isn't what she was expecting. She reaches out to turn the thermostat, holding her foot under the jet of water, turns both regulators off, the one for hot water on and again - nothing but cold water. And the damn tub is barely filled.

"What the hell...?"

She sways silently, chlenches her fists, tries again. Cold water. _Cold. Fucking. Water. _

"Seriously?!"

It can't be. Not now. Not when she was looking forward to a hot bath the whole day. She tries again, turning on and off with one hand and waving under the jet with the other.

"Pleeeaaase..."

Still cold water. Cold without the slightest hope for warmth.

She capitulates, cursing New Yorks water supply system or the one of this house or whatever is responsible for this shit and she hates every single water pipe in New York City and - _no_, she hates the whole city, and... Wait, is there coming up a lump in her throat? Wow. It's ridiculous, but out of sheer frustration, she actually feels the urge to cry. She wants to cry because of cold water in a lousy filled bathtub.

She peers towards her kitchen at a sudden idea. Maybe she could set pots with water on the stove and-...?

And then her phone rings beside her and her display says "12th" and she considers for a moment to just ignore it. But this evening wouldn't go out as she planned it anyway, and seriously - no murder would be worse than cold water in a bathtub, would it?

"Beckett..."

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_to be continued_


End file.
